


Seeds of Understanding

by Ginger Jam (skylite), skylite



Category: Storm - Fandom, X-Men, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:10:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/Ginger%20Jam, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/skylite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Storm kind of lowered the boom on Marisol Guerra.</p><p>Marisol's still feeling the sting when Storm returns home and wants to have a word with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeds of Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> (c) 2014 Marvel Entertainment, owned by them, no claim made by me, for entertainment purposes only.

TITLE:

 

SUMMARY: another way an unhappy student at the Jean Grey school could've handled her unhappiness.

 

SPOILERS: for Storm #1 (2014)

 

 

Marisol Guerra watched the events unfold on the HD flat-screen with the other students, while Dr. McCoy paced and fretted, muttering anxiously to himself. Marisol didn't see what he was so stressed out about. Storm was out there blowing tanks away to prevent poor people from losing their homes; from having their community torn apart against their will. _And I'd called her a sellout_ , she thought, brows knitting together in thought as she brushed her hair out of her face with an absent motion of her hands. She cast her thought back a few hours, rethinking her actions now that she was a little calmer...and suppressed a wince at the memory.

 

Marisol hadn't been at the school but for only a few weeks, and she was, admittedly, seriously homesick. The other kids noticing the way her powers reflected her emotions hadn't helped. Even though her English was good, the other students mocked her accent. When the other students abandoned her assigned codename -- Flourish -- to call her "Creep" instead, Marisol decided enough was enough. She'd thrown a bit of a tantrum if she was going to be honest about it. By way of "claiming" the "Creep" name, she'd embraced it and let her power have free rein, covering the school cafeteria in damp, hanging vines, Spanish Moss, soggy tubers, and thick fungus. _How do you like me now_ , she thought bitterly, as all but the most desensitized students fled the dampness and cloying odor.

 

There were other ways to get the attention of the headmistress, but Marisol had decided she was too sick of the other kids to consider taking them, by the time she'd turned the cafeteria into something out of a Stephen King novel. Mama would've been angry and embarrassed that Marisol had done something so inconsiderate to others. But none of that had mattered at the time. Nothing had, except for the need to lash out and get her say.

 

The headmistress had tried to talk Marisol down, but Marisol wasn't having any of it, not then. Storm was just another adult who could never understand. She'd tried, telling Marisol that it hadn't been an easy adjustment for her either, but Marisol hadn't believed her. Storm had once been Queen of Wakanda. And just looking at the school, its facilities and high tech amenities -- none of that could have come cheap. There was no convincing Marisol that the X-Men were any different than any other group of rich, privileged people who thought they knew better than those uneducated poor people.

 

Seeing the images on TV, Marisol was beginning to reconsider her position. The X-Men were revolutionaries. Rabble rousers. Some would even call them terrorists. But there she was on the TV, an X-Man, helping humans. The chatter around the room that had pulled Marisol in from the hall in the first place said that this little speck of an island had nearly been wiped clean off the map. It was only Storm's timely arrival and precise application of her powers that had prevented a disaster that would've cost thousands of lives. One kid showed her on his tablet the footage captured by cellphone and posted to YouTube. Storm stood on the beach, one woman against a thousand foot wall of fast-fast-moving water; the only thing between the village and a painful, watery death. Undaunted by the odds, this one woman had called half a dozen tornadoes to gently dissipate the enormous wave, spinning the mass of it into the sky to fall down again like rain; reducing it to something more akin to nasty-but-survivable hurricane swells.

 

That, to Marisol's astonishment, hadn't been all. Another camera thrust in her face showed what came after: There was Storm, on phone-phone-cam video, sagging with clear fatigue from the strain of what she had done. A fearless little girl, no more than ten -- _only six years younger than I am_ , Marisol realized-- raced to fling her arms around the famous mutant who had come to save them. She hadn't done it for the photo op. She had done it, at obvious personal cost, because they had needed help, and for no other reason.

 

Marisol did a little math in her head as the main TV segment went on to say Storm's return to the island had prevented a hotel chain from illegally uprooting the villages along the coast. Dr. McCoy seemed fretful, but the other kids were excited. Marisol herself was ambivalent. The X-Men were celebrities. Some were past or current Avengers. That much anyone with an Internet connection knew. In her display of power to help herself go from being Creep to simply Marisol, she had considered little more than that, and that the school seemed to constantly be under attack or threat of attack, so no wonder they needed an army. Marisol had no desire to be a militant or part of an army, She wanted to help people --her people--back home. But seeing the footage of soldiers telling Storm - Headmistress Munroe - that mutants weren't allowed on Santo Marco? _Maybe sometimes an army is the right tool for that job._ "Tools" was the word Headmistress Munroe had used when Marisol had been too much inside her own head to listen. Maybe the ideology she'd protested being indoctrinated into was more necessary and less pedagogical than Marisol had been willing to take into account.

 

She was still lost in these thoughts when a gust of wind blew open the doors, and a voice called "Creep." Marisol jumped and cried out, startled. For that she would accept no blame. Even if she had been a brat, and she had, most adults losing their temper with her didn't do so with lightning strikes six inches from her face!

 

"I'm sorry," said the headmistress softly.

 

Marisol straightened, surprised and pleased. Her power, still imperfectly controlled, began blooming tiny, colorful wildflowers in her hair. "Yeah?" she asked, looking up to meet the taller woman's eyes. "Okay, me too. Lo siento. I was a little out of line. And... I didn't think what else you had on your plate."

 

"Nor did I yours," the headmistress rejoined smoothly. "I forgot that being a teenage girl is hard enough. But adding being a mutant, and far from family and home on top of that? And a new school with kids from different cultures all going through the teenager mutant thing as well!" The white Mohawk bristled with electricity for a moment with those words. "When I joined this school, it was much smaller. We were closer knit out of necessity. That's no longer the case, and I should have realized that would make a difference." Storm turned and beckoned Marisol to join her with a tilt of her chin.

 

Marisol considered whether it was a ruse or a trap; Ms, Munroe had commanded in her Former Queen Of Wakanda voice that Creep clean up the cafeteria, and be ready for a disciplinary meeting the following day. But she sensed no deception in the older woman. The eyes that had gone scary white with fury were now just clear and blue.

 

Marisol glanced back at the room. The news was over. Most everyone had gone back to their own devices, texting, gaming, or whatever. Dr McCoy was busily typing away on a holographic keyboard. But Broo, the alien mutant kid was watching from behind the thick lenses of his glasses, and made a little gesture with one claw that seemed to say "go, trust." Loafers shushing softly on the carpet, Marisol followed the headmistress into the hallway.

 

“You said you wanted to go home,” Ororo said, walking down the hall at an easy pace that allowed Marisol to catch up. “It can be arranged, but I wonder if you'd give me a chance first to show you it's not as bad here as you think.”

 

Marisol wrinkled her nose. “Oh yeah?” She felt her arms rising, ready to fold indignantly over her chest, but Ororo no longer radiated the hostility she had a day earlier. “...Okay.”

Ororo's lips turned upward in the kind of smile that Marisol had heard described as “the kind that lights a room.” Marisol couldn't help wanting to smile in return, but she was still feeling uncertain, so she only allowed a faint, thin smile to show on her lips as Ororo led her up a flight of stairs, then an elevator, then another flight of stairs.

 

Marisol had to lean against the wall and cling to the banister for a moment to catch her breath after that last steep climb. “Where are we?”

 

“My room. My attic.” The room was a miniature jungle, full of potted plants of every shape, size and description. Marisol gaped; she had to shove her glasses back onto her nose. The obivious pride in this lush interior grove was obvious in the headmistress' – no, Ms. Munroe's face. _She's trying not to be an enemy. I have to try not to treat her like one._

 

“It's beautiful,” Marisol breathed, taking the older woman's gestured offer to look around. She found tiny pepper plants, and miniature citrus trees – orange, lemon, lime. She even found a tall coconut palm and a banana tree. “I had no idea...” She stopped, and turned to gaze at Storm. “You're why we always have fresh fruit in bowls at breakfast?”

 

“It saves us a little money in produce. I can't adjust the climate enough to grow _everything_ we feed you. It would put too much strain on the global weather patterns. But I do what I can, yes.” Storm shrugged, and made a circuit of the attic, which ran easily the length of the main house's center section, and tended to her plants lovingly. Tiny rainclouds were conjured where she found the soil too dry. “You see, although Professor Xavier who founded the grounds this school stands on, was wealthy – most of us come from middle class backgrounds. Or non-local ones. You, Marisol, have an advantage I did not when I first arrived.”

 

“I do?” Marisol had never considered that she'd have an advantage over anyone who'd been here longer.

 

“When Charles Xavier found me and brought me to the United States, I had mostly forgotten a lot of the English I knew. My --” Storm paused, a crease appearing in her brow “--mentor at the time did not encourage me to keep more than I needed to steal from the tourists in Cairo. The professor taught me English telepathically when I came to the states.” The silver mohawk rippled in a faint breeze that carried floral scents across the room as Storm took a disc down from a high shelf, and handed it to Marisol.

 

It was a hologram: a series of old photos had been scanned in, showing Storm when she had arrived as a young woman, looking just as uncertain and unsure as Marisol herself had felt on taking her first step into the sprawling mansion. The mansion hadn't been nearly as high tech then, but it had still been imposing in size. “We had not been recruited so much as an army, but as a rescue mission. To save the lives of other mutants who'd been taken against their will. Because no one else would. Or could.” Storm's blue eyes met Marisol's brown ones over the holographic display, obviously seeking understanding.

 

Marisol finished swiping through the holograms, before handing the device back. Storm replaced it on the shelf, then stepped to a pair of French doors that opened onto one of the floating platforms. She offered Marisol a hand, and the younger mutant took it, expression pensive.

 

Marisol opened her mouth to ask a question, but the question and all other thought was swept away by the gust of warm air summoned by Ms. Munroe to carry them aloft, around the campus, and gently leave them standing on the back lawn. Marisol was left gasping as the wind swirled playfully in her hair, then vanished altogether.

 

“The place we fought was alive itself, an island called Krakoa. It was wild and no more aware than any wild animal at the time. We had to fight it to the death to save our comrades. But its child was taken like you or I would take a cutting of a plant to grow a new one. And it was raised to fight us. We rescued him, and now he is a student here as well.”

 

“Say what?” Marisol had time only to ask the question before a pair of enormous mushrooms sprang up in the grass, followed at once by a grassy hillock with big jeweled eyes.

 

“This is ….well, Krakoa Jr.” explained Storm as the hillock smiled affably at the stunned Marisol. “He's often lonely because most of the other students – except for Rockslide, who is rather earthy himself – find him intimidating.” Storm settled one hip on a mushroom. “And he's too large to fit comfortably in most of the classrooms, so we tutor him out here when we can, and we have Professor Grey do the rest telepathically when she's on campus.”

 

Marisol climbed onto the enormous mushroom, understanding that it was Krakoa's way of trying to welcome her. She stroked the mushroom, then reached out to touch the grassy hillock, using a little of her power to grow a patch of wildflowers on top. Krakoa's jeweled eyes widened and there was a rumble that Marisol couldn't help but recognize as laughter.

 

“He likes me!” she exclaimed, amazed, as the hillock nuzzled closer to her like a puppy wanting his head patted.

 

“I had the feeling no one had introduced the two of you,” Storm said, smiling serenely. “We do get so busy with the day-to-day running of the place that we forget to do individual attention to student needs. You've reminded me that we've fallen down in that area. And we need to do better. For that, I thank you, Marisol.”

 

“But...” Marisol prompted, brow furrowing.

 

“No but,” Storm lifted both hands and shook her head. “You said you wanted to go home, and once you've heard me out, the choice is still yours to make freely. I was just thinking that if you do decide to stay, you might pick a committee of students to help with that oversight. Working under Professor Wagner, who has been … away for a while, and needs to get his sea legs under him again.”

 

“Wait, what, me?” Marisol was so startled she stopped stroking the grass that was Krakoa until the living hill nearly nudged her off her mushroom stool. “Okay, okay,” she said to the living hill, and resumed stroking the grass. “Really?”

 

“I look at it this way,” Storm said pensively, casting her eyes upward at the mansion looming above them. “There are _so_ many students here, Marisol, and although we do have telepaths on staff and amongst the student body, it is really frowned upon for us to intrude on your private thoughts that way.

 

“It is entirely possible that there are other students as uncomfortable and unhappy here as you have been, but who aren't self-assured and confident enough to find a way to bring it to our attention that is so – difficult to ignore.” Ororo gave the young woman a wry smile. “And you've seen for yourself the sort of things that can call me – and the rest of the faculty – away from the campus.”

 

The headmistress' mild expression became darker, and for a moment clouds began to billow above their heads. Storm pulled a face, lifted a hand and waved it. The clouds dissipated. “You have also drawn my attention to another problem that needs our attention. When Logan was Headmaster, bullying was not a concern. Since that was handed over to Headmistress Pryde, and then to me, there has obviously been a change in the mindset that bullying would be overlooked with women in charge of the school.”

 

Marisol looked up, wide eyed, and attentive. “You think that's what it is?”

 

“At least in part, yes. Logan was the type who would make bullies run laps. Clean up after the Bamfs. He would give them all the scut work. And it was, after a fashion, effective, because he did not mind the students resenting him. Professor Pryde --” and an element of pain entered Ms. Munroe's voice at the mention of the name, “--and I prefer a different approach, and that has, perhaps, been perceived as weakness by some of the more troubled kids we have here.”

 

Marisol winced. “And my little hissyfit didn't help. That's part of why you lost your temper.”

 

Storm shrugged. “I should not have, nor should I have taken out any of my frustrations with dealing with the student body on you in particular. But I hope you will forgive me and give me another chance.”

 

“So far,” Marisol chuckled as Krakoa flattened into a gentle bump under her feet, making a little hassock to rest on. “I guess I haven't given the school a fair chance. The other kids calling me Creep made it hard to. I still wanna go home. At least – for a visit. Can I have a weekend pass, and time to think over your offer?”

 

Storm was quiet for a moment before responding. “I think that is more than fair, Marisol. Pack your things. I'll fly you home this Friday coming. We'll have an assembly about the bullying tomorrow, because that will _not_ be tolerated. But you are excused from class until your weekend is over so you have time to advise your family and to pack.” With that, the headmistress stood, bent to pat Krakoa on its mound, and turned to go.

 

“Miss Munroe?” Marisol called after she had taken a few steps. The headmistress turned, one white brow arced in inquiry.

 

“Thank you. And...and I'm sorry I called you a sellout. You ...all those people in Santo Marco. By yourself. Against an army of regular people. They're too poor ...” Marisol stopped, biting her lip. “You didn't want or need any reward.”

 

Storm surprised Marisol by laughing. “Marisol, if you choose to stay, whether you choose to become an X-Man or not, you will discover that helping people is its own reward, especially when weighed against the other things we must deal with as mutants in a world where people see us as a threat to their existence.” The laugh ended, and her face clouded over, serious. “That is why I am concerned about you returning home, Marisol.”

 

Marisol realized with a start that the headmistress had not once referred to her as Creep, but by her given name.

 

“Your parents and extended family, I understand, are delighted to have a mutant with gifts like yours in the family. But not everyone will feel the same. You know that.” The headmistress turned to meet Marisol's gaze again, expression unreadable.

 

Marisol bit her lower lip. “I … I hadn't considered that, honestly,” she admitted in a much softer voice. “This school isn't just a training ground for an army. It's a fortress to protect kid mutants like me. From the humans.”

 

“From the humans,” confirmed Storm, raising a finger, and beginning to count off with them. “From other governments who fear us. From other mutants who would use us. From other mutants who think coexistence with humans is impossible and would seek our destruction so they can rule over humans.”

 

Marisol felt a cold knot form in her stomach. “So that's why --” She trailed off, thinking of the situation that had set her off a day ago. A Danger Room drill had gone off while she was asleep – on the one day a week she didn't have to be up early. She'd stumbled out of bed and into her gym clothes while metal arms tried to grab her from the walls. She had managed to stumble groggily from the room to the hallway, barely able to make out the AI's announcement as to where she should go to successfully complete the drill. She'd been so upset and discombobulated that she was a dripping mess, covered in creepers. The other students had laughed when she had stumbled in last. “The constant drills and training exercises.”

 

“The tools,” corrected the headmistress gently.

 

Marisol swallowed hard. “Tools,” she repeated. “If it's okay, I'm gonna stay here with Krakoa and mull over our conversation a little.”

 

“That's fine. See you Friday for your flight home, unless you need me for anything sooner.” Storm took to the air, returning to her attic, and closing the doors behind her.

 

Marisol concentrated, and a few wild daisies popped up besides the wild heather she'd planted on Krakoa earlier. A vibration began under her feet that she could almost swear was the mutant earth creature purring like a kitten.

 

The sun began to go down before Marisol finally decided to come inside, after promising Krakoa she'd be back to visit him again the next day. Flowers bloomed beneath her feet as she walked back to the mansion. She was careful not to track flora into the building with her as she climbed the stairs and navigated the hallway back to her room.

 

She opened her laptop and typed a quick email to her mother. Marisol had more to think about than she had begun the day with. She at least was no longer feeling so hopeless and alone. Maybe the headmistress' offer was worth taking up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
